


Lore: The Oracles

by Eleutherios



Category: The Secret World
Genre: Gen, see if you can spot the blowjob joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleutherios/pseuds/Eleutherios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our wisdom flows so sweet.  Taste and see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lore: The Oracles

Our wisdom flows so sweet.  Taste and see.

TRANSMIT - initiate honeycomb signal - RECEIVE - initiate Sibylline frequency - DOWNLOAD - initiate Beowulf archive - RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU KNOW THE ANSWER - initiate Pierian Spring protocol - EVERYTHING IS TRUE - initiate the Akashic Records cadence - WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO READ? - the gold spectrum - WITNESS - The Oracles.

A blessing on your head.  Behold the Chosen Many.

There will always be seekers.  Digging deep and climbing high, spurred by an bee in their bonnet - such a hunger, sweetlings!  Pour out the nectar like water.  You will know it when you meet them, all pointed questions to scratch an itch, scraping below the surface, under the skin of the world.  Interrogators.  Supplicants.  Demanding and begging for grace.  Behold: an Oracle is born.

Initiate the King James Protocol.  The code is 19 and 10.  The password is "Psalms."  Transmit!

Gluttony of learning: the sweetest addiction, the most virtuous vice.  What can compare with revelation on your lips, truth on your tongue, knowledge down your throat?  Philosophers are lovers, and wisdom is a harsh paramour.  Learn to bear it.  You will need it.  Bitter times are coming.

Initiate the King James Protocol.  The code is 1 and 18.  The password is "Ecclesiastes."  Transmit!

Be an empty cup, sweetling.  Be a silent theatre.  Initiate the secret histories.

Captive Greece tamed her captor.  We came to them in draughts of watered wine and the sweet murmur of symposia.  Athens in the days of its youth was hope and dignity given form.  We whispered, sweetling, and the people of ambrosial Pallas listened and listened and never stopped.  We danced in the shadows of their tribons and they learned much from our patterns.

Never underestimate the power of silence.  In marble quiet they sat and listened and we poured our hearts out to their open ears.  Always nice to meet a good listener.

To Rome, to Alexandria, to Byzantium and beyond.  The get of Hellas spread far and wide and we rode with them, from Penglai to Avalon, and wherever we found willing silence, we spoke.  There will always be those with questions.  Do you take pride in being an insufferable know-it-all?

They carried us to the Abode of Peace and were there to witness the creation of the Technicolor Pipe Dream.  They kept the minutes, wrote down the memorandums.  They write down everything.

They did not grow as the family grew.  The three siblings, Red and Blue and Green, grew up, striving to be the biggest, the brightest.  Gold grew out, spreading itself wide like a net to catch secrets.  Such secrets they found tangled in their webs, each one labelled and numbered and tucked away for reference. 

People come to Oracles for guidance.  Scarlet-cloaked heroes, azure-plumed tricksters, emerald-eyed scholars: all came seeking definition, seeking direction.  None saw the others; each thought the Oracles were gold in their pocket, but power is in being underestimated.  The Oracles belong to no one and nothing.  Except us, that is.  Wisdom is a jealous bedmate.

List the names: Pythia, Nechung, Akashwani.  From every quarter, a golden voice.

Shutter-click of memory.  The seasons turn and turn and turn.  We hummed their passing.

When the Eagle fell, the world shook.  Rome's sinking swamped many smaller vessels.  The Oracles rode the storm and snatched the treasures floating in the water.  Such a ruthless habit.  Meden agan!

Theirs was a slow decline.  The white noise of dispute filled their ears.  Impossible to get a word in edgewise.  Schisms and division make such bad dinner conversation, sweetling.  Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk about money or politics or religion?  Secrets shrivel before the torch.

The modern age has been good to them.  The learning of mankind lies at their fingertips, written in light and lines of binary, and young blood is filling the old giant.  Hot and hungry, these new children fly like - like US!  Nectar once more flows like water.  Golden honey stops up the cracks.

Have you ever crossed the street while reading, sweetling?  Lost in a book and dead to the world, deaf to the panicked horns and the screech of tyres?  The Oracles walk the world with their noses in books.  We tell them to mind the black puddles, but there's no telling some people.

Some secrets should stay hidden.  Some of our words are too heavy.  June 28, 1992, the Mojave Desert: we wrote the True Name in gold on the mind of one Eric Chen.  Critical mass reached!  Reactor integrity compromised!  A most explosive overdose.  The Oracles shrugged and the Illuminati roped off the scene and swept up the mess.

Dark days are here.

The Oracles navigate by their own light.  We filled them to the brim with molten gold, and now they cannot see the stars winking out one by one by one.  Light pollution can be such a nuisance.  Honeyed words have tainted their palates.  If they do not wake to their peril soon, they may have nothing left to drink but Filth and ashes.

Dark demons cry Gaia.  

Explorers are pushing into hidden places and secret lands.  Every day, the golden net spreads a little further.  How long before it breaks?

Listen to us again, sweetling.  Learn to be quiet.  We cannot pour out into a vessel already full. We cannot sing amid the sound and fury.  Find us in the half light.  Hear our warning, before we too fall silent.  You will not be able to salvage the wrecks for secrets if we all go down together.


End file.
